Varand (1953- ), aka Varand S. Koorkchian, is a poet, writer and translator. His poetry is influenced by both Eastern and Western Armenian cultural traditions. His poems reach out to the Armenian community with hopes to cure historical wounds.

Varand was honoured as Professor in Armenian Literature by the Grigor Loosavoritch University of Etchmiadzin, Armenia in 2001. He translates both Persian classic and modern poetry into the Armenian language.

Thursday, November 23, 2006

It is very interesting to listen TO SEVERAL MP3s simultaneously. It's a TRIP!!!

Charles Amirkhanian is a composer, percussionist, sound poet, and radio producer. He is a leading practitioner and proponent of text-sound composition and has been instrumental in the dissemination of contemporary music. His recent work combines processed ambient and found sounds with text-sound and develops layers abstraction which interlock with representational or narrative constructs.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

She saved me. When I arrived in 6th grade,a known criminal, the new teacherasked me to stay after school the first day, she saidI’ve heard about you. She was a tall woman,with a deep crevice between her breasts,and a large, calm nose. She said,This is a special library pass.As soon as you finish your hour’s work—that hour’s work that took ten minutesand then the devil glanced into the roomand found me empty, a house standing open—you can go to the library. Every hourI’d zip through the work in a dash and slip out of myseat as if out of God’s side and saildown to the library, solo through the emptypowerful halls, flash my passand stroll over to the dictionaryto look up the most interesting wordI knew, spank, dipping two fingersinto the jar of library paste tosuck that tart mucilage as Icame to the page with the cocker spaniel’ssilks curling up like the fine steam of the body.After spank, and breast, I’d move onto Abe Lincoln and Helen Keller,safe in their goodness till the bell, thanksto Mrs. Krikorian, amiable giantesswith the kind eyes. When she asked me to writea play, and direct it, and it was a flop, and Ihid in the coat-closet, she brought me a candy-caneas you lay a peppermint on the tongue, and the wormwill come up out of the bowel to get it.And so I was emptied of Luciferand filled with school glue and eros andAmelia Earhart, saved by Mrs. Krikorian.And who had saved Mrs. Krikorian?When the Turks came across Armenia, whoslid her into the belly of a quilt, wholocked her in a chest, who mailed her to America?And that one, who saved her, and that one—who saved her, to save the onewho saved Mrs. Krikorian, who wasstanding there on the sill of 6th grade, awide-hipped angel, smokey hairstanding up weightless all around her head?I end up owing my soul to so many,to the Armenian nation, one more soul someonejammed behind a stove, drovedeep into a crack in a wall,shoved under a bed. I would wakeup, in the morning, under my bed—notknowing how I had got there—and liein the dusk, the dustballs beside my faceround and ashen, shining slightlywith the eerie comfort of what is neither good nor evil.

Raised in Berkeley, California, Sharon Olds’s (1942—) poetry often focuses on confessional or autobiographical themes. Her collection The Dead and the Living has sold over 50,000 copies. From 1998 to 2000 she was the New York State Poet Laureate. Olds currently resides in New York City, where she founded the Writing Program at Goldwater Hospital for the severely disabled.

Two of the Armenian-American poets mentioned in this blog have been publishes in the Cortland Review. The website also has links to hear the authors reading their work. You may need to download REAL PLAYER or WINDOWS MEDIA PLAYER to hear the RAM.

Djanikian, Gregory When I First Saw Snow (excerpt) (Poetry, 1998 Holiday Special)At the End of the Day (Poetry, Issue 5)You Just Don't Get It (Poetry, Issue 5)Break Up (Poetry, Issue 5)Years Later (Poetry, Issue 3)Neither Here Nor There (Poetry, Issue 3)The Man Who was Always Sad (Poetry, Issue 3)Fable (Poetry, Issue 3)Waiting for Her Again (Poetry, Issue 3)

This is the flesh, surrendered to love.
This is the blood, fervent in the veins.
Oh joy! I’m celebrating—
celebrating tonight this Sun-day of my body
and womanhood, saved for a noble guest,
that I’ve spread before my lover.
Be my guest, take it, savor everything,
I’ll be your hostess,
no one else but Khachik’s daughter,
kiss me and you won’t ever age,
kiss me and you won’t get sick,
kiss me and you will never die.
Surely, one can be cured in love’s bed,
the blind espies the throbbing of passion,
the dumb speaks in rhythms of the heart,
the limp gets up to walk the trails of flesh,
and the beauty awakens from her slumber
of death with a kiss.

Kiss me and I, too, won’t cease!

Look, the moth and rust have already consumed the hoards
of my treasures, my beautiful dresses, my sparkling gems, my smart books,
and the thief has broken in, gone with all my money,
but your kiss will never rust,
your kiss will break this wall of Chinese sadness.
With my mouth I will approach you
and wrap around you with my lips,
with my inspecting tongue I will hunt your body alone
and sweep away the contents of your honeycomb.

How delicious, how sensuous they are, the lips of my lover,
the tongue playing fervently on my teeth,
skillful, as if gliding over piano keys . . .

Should I, mother?
Should I submit to love’s secret promise,
should I touch with my burning fingertips,
should I tickle with my bristly tongue,
should I caress the sprouting stem
and be a guest in the camp of love?
This flesh was given to me for free,
and as a gift, I’ll give it away,
this flesh that I won with ease
in God’s game of chance.

Come, knock on the locked door
of my riches with your middle finger,
undress the tight layers of words,
enter my life with your naked heart
and throw your anchor in my bay.

I will splash you with my innate waters
and anoint you with my vulva’s myrrh,
for you are consecrated and I─your faith.

See the foxes, they all have their holes,
the birds of heaven have their own nests,
I am your hole and I am your nest,
come, dwell inside me, my love,
sweet is your burden, your weight is so light.
Rise to my bed as if to a lectern
and speak with the eloquent syllables of flesh,
in inflections of the body, words of flesh,
recite verses of love and conquests of passion.
Ask, and you will be given,
knock, and it will open,
and though the door is narrow, the path─not easy,
listen to the voice calling from the bed,
your path is already paved
and all your trails lead to me.
Go on, ride your mighty chariot, cum-
mand me with your delicate, leather-bound,
delicate, smooth, delicate whip,
tame the wild galloping of passion,
scorch my thighs with your mark
and wave your flag above me.

I am a wild river,
I am opulent vines,
I am fertile air,

enter my riverbed—hide inside,
inhale me, and exhale,
inhale me, and exhale,
inhale me, and exhale,
inhale me deeply, and oh exhale, exhale!
What pleasure it is to take you in, my trainer of love, my fervent mate,
none is equal to you of those born of women . . .

Blessed be my abdomen, that quivered from your tongue’s touch,
blessed be my breast, that curved from your tongue’s stroke,
blessed I am, my master’s servant, for being chosen of all women . . .

Don’t be cross, mother, look, how healthy I am,
look how robust I am from training in love,
how happy my heart is, my tongue so joyous,
and my flesh, living in hope,
for this Self is in the house of love . . .
Let them look at me, those who have eyes─
what a charming sight─
the conjoined bodies, spread on the sheets,
a woven bouquet, an agile lily, a knot
that tightens and loosens, a rocking swing . . .
Sway this raft, my buoyant wind, my joyful partner,
sway my raft, handsome captain, mad pirate,
sway me, until I cease,
until there is left nothing of me,
until I am no more,
sway me until I reach that place─NOTAPLACE,
the shores of bliss . . .

And so, step by step, word by word,
piece by piece, station by station,
guide me through my own labyrinths of flesh,
and kiss by kiss, move by move,
kiss by kiss, sound by sound,
take me past the gateway of my flesh,
take me to the house of joy . . .
One more step, yes, one more move,
and on the white sheets, as if on paper,
these words appear between two lines of flesh─

This is flesh that surrendered to death.
This is blood that stuttered once, then was silenced forever.
Oh what tragic celebration, what joyful grieving,
and inside our hearts are warping.
We weep, for it’s a wedding,
but the groom, alas, is not with us,
for it’s a wedding,
but the guests are, oh, not worthy.
And we laugh,
for even though the seedling perished,
it will be fecund.
He took our ailments, he took our pain,
this Son of Man,
he cured us from death. But with man’s kiss
he was infected with death.

You thought you were hunter of men,
You—a carpenter’s boy, son of Mary,
but behold how men caught you with death,
oh behold how men caught you with death.
And here you are ceasing from yourself,
and here you are no more.
And inside our hearts are warping.

We know, those who love your heavenly father,
are like a mother, sister or brother to you.
And we, too, are weeping like a mother, grieving like a sister,
standing alone, lost like a brother.
Your mother should’ve gone blind,
not to have seen your head drop on your chest,
your sister should’ve gone dry,
not to have seen you so tortured, so beaten,
your brother should’ve died,
not to have seen you made a laughing stock . . .
But we are also weeping for our own fate,
for our sons we weep and wail,
blessed are those who are barren,
woe to those who are pregnant and feeding,
oh glorious mountains, fall on us now,
green hills, cover us soon,
and though we tamed the wind and sea,
though we treaded on waters, cured the blind,
made the limp walk,
and though now we clone man in our own image,
giving him breath, our hearts are not happy,
our tongues, alas, are not joyous,
and our flesh does not live in hope,
for we are in the house of death,
denied of the joy of your presence . . .

We refuse to seek you among the dead, not you—still living,
but how can we not grieve and weep over this flesh,
in which we have known you, in which we have loved you,
tell us how to find solace.
Many others touch us with their virtual lips to console,
but nothing compares to your consolation,
many others caress us with their virtual hands in compassion,
but nothing compares to your compassion,
oh return to us in flesh one day, as one of us, as friend,
touch us and accept our flesh,
touch our open wounds
and kiss us, to cure the pain . . .
How can we not grieve, how can we not weep for this flesh,
for you were, you were the Best Thing,
oh these tresses that we sprinkled with holy water
are now stiff with coagulated blood,
oh these hands that gave us bread and fish
and washed our feet humbly
are now nailed and covered in wounds,
these eyes that gave solace to our hearts
and joy to our souls
are now murky-dilated glaring into that place—NOTAPLACE . . .

In this dungeon you are bound with chains of death,
in this cold body, this three-day station . . .

But you’ll rise soon from the cages of your ribs,
you’ll be freed soon,
while we here are confined to our flesh,
we cease in this flesh—it’s where we end.
And though death is our cheapest game,
a blade worth a dime, a meter and half long rope,
though we’ve halted death,
and put our life preserve in the freezer,
though we’re free to choose death—
our prison is timeless in this body cell,
with a bed of swarming maggots,
with a blanket of bloated worms.

And when that cheap blade draws near,
we begin to stutter, we grow pale, we sob,
our hearts warp inside of us,
and our thoughts get lost,
our intestines twist and turn,
and our tongues stiffen in our mouths,
and we run to our Rooms, close the doors,
and hide inside of ourselves . . .

We are barefooted and naked in front of it,
our asses are uncovered and our necks are bent.
Like yarn, it will roll us into a bundle,
and cast us like a ball into that place─NOTAPLACE . . .

But you, step by step, word by word,
piece by piece, station by station,
faced your own death without complaint,
passed through that gateway and entered
your beloved father’s house.

Best Thing,
caress us like a mother, like a sister give us hope,
and hold our hand as a brother,
step by step, and move by move,
step by step, and sound by sound,
bring us out from this dark NOTAPLACE,
take us through that gateway,
take us to our father’s house . . .
One more step, yes, one more move,
the last gulp of breath pushes itself out
through the crack of lips onto the urn of eternity─

“It has happened.”

Copyright Violet Grigoryan.

This poem has previously appeared in Bnagir literary journal, published in Armenia.

Here is the body surrendered to love,here is the blood running through brazenveins,rejoice, it’s a holiday!Tonight is a celebration, my body’s SundayI have spread my womanhood, saved for aprecious guest, for my lover.Go ahead, take it, enjoy it already.see, my darling, how my father’s daughtertreats you.Kiss me and…you’ll never grow old,kiss me and…you’ll never get sick,kiss me and…you’ll never die.The love-bed cures everything, doesn’t it?It makes the blind see the writhing of passion,it makes the mute speak with the drum of hisheart,the lame rises and walks the valleys of thebody,and a kiss will awaken the beauty from hersleep.Kiss me and…I’ll never die.See how the moths and rust have gnawed atthe piles of my hidden treasures,my lovely clothes, my sparkling jewellery, myerudite books.And the thieves have gotten in through thewall and stolen my money.But your kiss will never get rusty,your kiss will break through the Chinese wallof my anguish.I’ll bring my mouth close to yours,I’ll cover you with my lips,And my inquisitive tongue will search yourentire bodyto seek, find, and savor the beehive honey.Oh, how luscious and sensual are the lips ofmy love!The tongue, with a mind of its own, plays atune on my teethadroitly, like on a piano’s white keys.Mother, what should I do?Should I surrender to love’s only innate promise?Should I fondle it with my warm fingertips?Should I tickle it with the moist roughness ofmy tongue?Should I stroke and caress the rigid stalkand accept it into my love camp?I got it for free and give it for free, this body ofminethat fell to my lot, that I wonin an earthly lottery.Unlock my property with your middle finger,strip the words of their weightless clothes,enter my boat with a naked heart, anddrop your anchor in the bay of my body…I will rinse you with my inner watersAnd bless you with the chrism of my hotwomb,I’ve already baptized you into my following.The foxes always have burrows,all the birds of the sky – their nests,my body and I are your burrow and nestcome live inside me, my love,your body weighs light and sweet on me.Climb on my bed, and, as if from a lectern,orate with body syllables,body conjugations,body words,body language,recite the saga of love and passion’s campaigns,ask, and you will receiveknock, and it will open;the door may be narrow, the road may be hardbut, lo, the voice calls from the bed,I’ve prepared this road for youand smoothed out the paths…So, drive your muscle-made carriage, governme,with a thin, leathern, thin, fine, thin strapguide the untamed course of our passion,brand my hips with your stamp,plant your flag in me.I am a wild river,I am a tight cluster,I am fragile airEnter my streamhide there inside me,and inhale and exhale me,and inhale and exhale me,and inhale and exhale me,and deeply inhale me, ah, now exhale,ah, exhale…How sweet it is to take you inside me, my lovecoach, my brazen pillow-mate,nobody better has ever been born of a woman…Blessed is my belly that has shivered from thetouch of your tongue,blessed are my nipples that have hardenedfrom the touch of your tongue,blessed am I, the servant of the Lord, for I wasblessed among women…Mom, don’t be angry,see how healthy I am,see how fit I’ve become from the training oflove,see, happy is my heart and jubilant my tongue,my body lives with hope,for I now dwell in the valley of love.Whoever has eyes, let them seethis enchanting picture —two intertwined bodies, prostrate on a sheet,a woven bouquet, a lily in bloom,an opening seashell, a sea-saw in swing.Merry wind, my happy companion, rock myboat,my fearless sailor, my reckless adventurer,rock my boat,rock me, until I expire entirely,until I finally run out on my own,until I stop on my own,rock me until I reach there — the NO PLACEOh, what ecstasy!Guide me through the labyrinths of my bodylike this, step by step, word by word,detail by detail, pause by pause,kisses and kisses, movement by movement,kisses and kisses, sound by sound,and kisses and kisses.Take me and lead me over the threshold of mybodytake me to the house of rapture…Like this, one more step, like this, one moremovement,on a snow-white sheet, like snow-white paper,the lines of two bodies spelling three words“And it’s done!”****Here is the body surrendered to death.Here is the blood that has faltered and stoppedforever.Oh, what a desolate feast, what festive mourning,and our hearts are aching inside us.We cry,because this is a wedding,but the bridegroom is no longer with usbecause this is a wedding,but the guests are unworthy.and we laugh,for although the kernel has died,it will grow millions of sprouts.He took on our illnesses, drove away ourpains,this Son of Man,he raised us from the dead, ... buthe caught death through a human kiss.Oh, carpenter’s child, oh, Mary’s son,you thought yourself a catcher of humans,but see how the humans have ensnared you indeath.Oh, see how the humans have ensnared you indeath!Until you ran yourself out,Until you stopped yourself,And now our hearts are burning within us.We know that whoever does the will of yourheavenly fatheris your brother and sister and mother.And we weep here like mothers, mourn youlike sisters,we bow our heads to our sorrows, like brothers.woe is your mother, for she saw your headhanging low on your chest,woe is your sister, for she saw you torturedand beaten,woe is your brother, for he saw you mocked.But we also mourn for ourselves.We mourn and wail for our sons:blessed are the barren mothers and wombsthat have never conceived,woe to those pregnant and nursing.smash us, tall cliffs,green hills, cover us,although, like you, we’ve tamed the wild windsand high seas,although, like you, we’ve walked on water,cured the blind, madethe lamewalk,and although we create human beings in ourimage, in our likeness,we give them the breath of lifeour hearts still don’t rejoice,our tongues don’t exult,our bodies don’t fill with hope,because we dwell in the valley of death,and we are deprived of the joy of your presence…No, we don’t look for you, the most living,among the dead,but how can we not mourn you and shed tearsover the bodyin which we have seen you and loved you?How can we comfort ourselves?Many have touched and soothed us with avirtual kiss,but it is not the same as the comfort you offered;Many have caressed and pitied us with a virtualhand,but it is not the same as the sympathy you gaveus.Oh, if you could only return in flesh, as ourrelativeand as our friend,to touch and trust our bodies,to touch our open wounds,and kiss away the pain…So how can we not mourn you and shed tearsover your body?For you were the Savior!oh, this head that was once anointed with theointment of nardis now caked with dried blood,these hands that once fed us fish and breadand humbly washed our feet,are pierced with nails,And those eyes that once brought comfort toour hearts and filled our souls with joy,Are looking, blank, out there —into the NOPLACE…The shackles of death have chained you to theprisonof your cold body —for a three-day repose…But soon you’ll rise up out of your ribcage,you’ll break free,while we remain here, condemned to our bodies,to end with our bodies.Though death may be our cheapest toy —a two-penny blade, a seven-foot rope,though we have temporarily frozen death,stored the preserve of life in the fridge,though we’re free to choose death,we remain imprisoned forever withinthe prisons of our bodies,with loathsome worms as our mattressand plump vermin as our blanket.And when we see the cheap blade approaching,we stammer, we pale, we shiver,and inside us, our hearts sink,and inside us, our thoughts get blurryand inside us, our stomachs turn,and inside us, our mouths go dry.We run to our room, lock the doors,hide insideourselves…Before the blade we are barefoot and naked,our asses are bare andour necksare bowed.It’ll knot us into a knot, make a knot of us,and toss us, like balls, over there — the NOPLACE…But you — step by step, but you — word byword,detail by detail, pause by pause,unflinchingly walked towards death,stepped over the threshold and enteredthe kingdom of your beloved father.Our Savior!Caress us like a mother, give us hope like asister,and lead us by our hand, like a brother,step-step, movement by movement,step-step, sound by sound,step-step,quickly, pull us out of the dark NO PLACE,take us over that threshold,get us to our father’s safe haven…Like this, one more step, like this, one moremovement.The last breath of air in the last spasmthrows itself through the lips into the eternalembrace:“And it’s done!”

This translation has appeared in Emily Artinian’s artist’s book, “From Ararat to Angeltown”, 2005, offset lithography, edition of 250 copies.

This bilingual English/Armenian book contains newly translated works by six contemporary Armenian authors, all members of the avant garde literary group Bnagir, based in Yerevan, Armenia.

I am the one, unconquered, watching over you with songs of allure,I am the one, sleepless, dreaming your fortune with motherly care; my fierce voice rings with alarm for you, stepchildren of life, who beg an existence toiling all day, suffering won’t let your eyes grow dry. My vibrant voice rings with alarm resounding mightily for your dishonored lives, always longing for resistance, a struggle, waiting with unquenched vengeance, waiting for revolt..I am the one, buoyant and rebellious, standing with you,I am the one who for love of you left behind her feminine rhyme.

An empty room-With full of things,And a suitcase in the middle,Gloves, a hatAnd a dear coat on it,And a colorful paper on the side-Anyways it won’t be needed.An ajar door,Survey,And a cool air penetrating inside.Yet there are words – said and unsaid,And the silence is tiresome.Half instant of unity,And half a second of regret,And a whole minute for the “ego”.And a road – empty, white,And a whole life without a life,For the sake of what?…